


Side Pocket

by coffeehousehaunt



Series: Can't a Girl Have a Little Fun? [3]
Category: Lost Girl
Genre: Drinking, F/F, Pool Table, Prompt Fill, Public almost-sex, Shenanigans, Valkubus - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 15:15:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2073042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeehousehaunt/pseuds/coffeehousehaunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bo and Tamsin really need to process after Yule. Which is of course <i>exactly</i> what happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Side Pocket

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt for liminalsmith: "Cerberus: Our characters raising some hell together". 
> 
> I took it and fleshed it out a bit better. I think.

Bo's bent over the table, taking her shot, and Tamsin's holding their bottle of vodka in one hand, a pool stick in the other. They have a system: one shoots, the other drinks.

Tamsin doesn't really remember Bo playing pool; but then, right now, that doesn't mean a whole lot. And Tamsin's pretty sure that, if they ever had any interactions involving this pool table, they were nothing like this. 

Two days after Yule, and Bo's been quiet, shut up in her room, or barely in the house at all. Lauren and Dyson have been absent or subdued; they know that Bo knows they made a drinking game out of that box. One word: Doghouse. 

Bo's eyes went a little blank when Tamsin suggested they get drunk, her stomach far too jumpy--something to break the gloom around here. She almost said no, and Tamsin almost let her. They made it three rounds in before the dingus fondling the pool cues vacated the premises and Tamsin couldn't stay away from the table. Bo's eyes lit up. Turns out, Bo plays pool. 

She's not awful. 

To be fair, Tamsin's been playing this game since it was invented; any Valkyrie who can't shoot a combo ain't worth shit. She started off pretty rough, but it's coming back. Bo's noticed, too; way she's leaning over the table, biting her lip with her hair framing that straight shot down her cleavage, she's getting a little worried. Or maybe it's the vodka; or maybe the memories, the new ones. Bo's eyes flicker up to Tamsin's before she takes her shot, all flirt, but Tamsin knows her far too well--realizes with a shock: she knows that behind that look, Bo's gauging her. She can almost see the shadows, considering, wondering; _those_ , she's familiar with. Nope, she's getting worried. Tamsin's stomach sings, and she takes another hit from the bottle; the only cure for new nerves is vodka. Bo looks back down the cue with a smirk twitching at her lips. 

Bo maybe underestimates just how much Tamsin likes winning. Getting her hard is not the way to beat her at anything. 

Eventually, Bo misses; she's only one ball ahead of Tamsin. Bo smirks at her like she's winning. _Please. As if._ A few weeks ago, she was practically a kitten. 

_Not anymore._ She passes the bottle back to Bo and heads for the table. The air in the Dal slides over her skin in a way that's far too friendly for her liking. 

Okay, _now_ Bo's trying to be distracting. And it's kinda working; but still, not entirely in Bo's favor. Bo takes a hit right from the bottle and throws her head back maybe a little farther than she needs to, and the bar lights hit it just right through the fall of her hair and Tamsin can see the muscles playing in her neck and chest all the way down to where the swell of her breasts starts, the dip between. And she tastes it, all over again; hot, hot skin, the rough scrape of Tamsin's tongue and the tingle of the liquor gathering on it. The vodka in her blood lights up with a predatory heat, and her muscles tense. Tamsin leans over the table and lines up her shot, and makes sure to give Bo a good profile of her ass while she sinks a combo and takes the lead again. 

Goddamn. Nothing gets her hot like winning. She slides along the edge to line up her next shot. 

Of _course_ Bo's gonna walk up behind her, lean over her like a shadow, brush her hips up against Tamsin's; not nearly enough to throw her off-balance, but it leaves her caught between the _suggestion_ of the pressure of Bo's body and the edge of the table digging into the tops of her thighs, and she has to bite her lip and check herself to keep focused, caught between the slower heat unfurling in her low in her belly, and the knowledge that it's Bo who takes up all the hot water in the mornings. The more recent is sharper; the smell of her perfume conjures up the clusterfuck of the crack shack's bathroom, a riot of mascara and fingernail polish, Dyson's beard trimmer and lipstick prints on the mirrors. But there's something inevitable, not just familiar or older, maybe fundamental, about the way her muscles tighten and her skin flushes. The memory of a sound in her throat that she can't quite shape. 

Clay and leather and steel. Coffee and paper and brass. Steel and smoke. And perfume. 

Two can play this game. 

She shifts to brace her legs farther apart and push back against Bo, eyes fixed ahead on her shot. Bo's half-leaning over her, one hand sitting on the bottle on the lip of the table, and the other on the table behind Tamsin's arm, carefully out of the way, and Tamsin can feel her breathe. Waiting. Six different sarcastic remarks cross her mind, but if she tries to say any of them, she might miss her shot, and that wouldn't be worth it. 

Tamsin sinks another combo just like that, and Bo gives a little laugh that's half a disbelieving gasp, abs moving against her back, a soft sound that goes right through Tamsin. She almost turns around and throws Bo on the table right there. Instead, she straightens, making Bo move for her, and flashes her a smirk so sharp it even surprises Tamsin. Bo's eyes run down Tamsin's body, and when they come back up to meet Tamsin's, the change hits Tamsin like a shot. Not a color thing; they're still just brown. But they glint, now, and she can feel that fundamental thing pulsing between them. She steps even further into Bo's space. Bo's eyes flare up at her, challenge and appraisal and something that their drunk Yule groping only hinted at, and for the first time, Tamsin feels taller than Bo. Specifics are overrated; Bo's gaze almost physically pushes at Tamsin, her body pulls Tamsin in, and that's all the memory she needs to know that this is how they move. Tamsin's throat tightens on that look like it's water--she's wanted that look for so long now, and she didn't even remember what it looked like. And even though she finally feels like she fits her skin, Tamsin stops. 

A small cold shiver through her guts, a tightening in her throat; she doesn't know her way through this as well as she thought she did. Runs through motions without knowing why, the whole time, riding the high of it like she's just a passenger on this train. She wonders what Bo actually remembers about her. 

Tamsin is _not_ a fucking passenger. But not even the burn in her veins can completely drown the tremor in her hands. She breathes, puts the crosshairs right on that ball, and her hands don't give her away. _Sunk._

After that, there's just one more ball before the eight-ball. Bo watches her sink this one, dark eyes considering. _Last shot, better think fast._ She calls it: side pocket. A victorious smirk spreads across her face. New body, and she's still got game. Bo takes another swig, sets the bottle down, and heads her way. 

As Tamsin's leaning over, Bo slips one hand into one of Tamsin's front pockets. Her fingers burn through the flimsy material. Nails scrape up the heated skin of her thigh, and Tamsin's breath goes out of her in a shivering line. 

She lets out a shaky laugh. "You better be willing to follow through on that one, succubus." And if Bo thinks she's gonna end up on top, she's got another think coming. 

"I _always_ follow _through_." Bo promises against the shell of her ear. Those fingertips inch higher, and Tamsin's breath hitches. Fuck. She's going all in. Higher. She lets out a soft sound and has to force her eyes open. Curls her upper lip. Clicks the cue on the ball. And sinks it. 

Relief and victory and the rush of it all coalesces in a hot throb as she straightens. She can practically feel the shock radiating off of Bo. 

She turns and smirks at Bo, still hip-to-hip. Bo looks stunned, _hungry_ \--and Tamsin's legs feel like lightning. Tamsin steps back into her skin. 

"I claim a forfeit," She says, hard up with winning and adrenaline and the lingering feeling of Bo's fingertips on her and she could cold-cock every person in this room and still have enough juice left to fuck Bo on the bar in front of everyone. She drops the cue, "Your ass is mine." She grabs under Bo's ass, picks her up, turns around, and spills her onto her back on the table. 

They get cheers. Damn right they do. They're the hottest women in the room. It'd be a shame that Bo can't feed off _this_ , but Tamsin's starting to pick up the pattern: the crowd, the cheers, Bo's arms around her neck. All those people getting hot watching them, Bo getting hot under her. Bo makes a feral sound, almost complaining. 

If Bo didn't want to lose, she should've known better than to challenge Tamsin to a game of pool. 

Judging by the way she's dragging her nails down Tamsin's arms and sliding her tongue into Tamsin's mouth, though, she doesn't mind too much. 

Tamsin sinks her teeth along that lower lip, picks up Bo's hips and slams them back down hard enough to make the table--and Bo--groan. Bo fists both hands in Tamsin's shirt and tears from the back, scrapes her nails over her shoulders, and Tamsin shudders, growls. Bo's short leather skirt's rucked up around the tops of her thighs because she's got her legs wrapped around Tamsin's waist, grinding the heat of herself against Tamsin's front. And Tamsin--Tamsin's running her hands up and down Bo's bare legs, blunt nails in that soft skin, digging at the muscles clenched underneath, clenched around her hips, tightening her fingers at the very tops of Bo's thighs to pull her in harder, one arm sliding up and under her back. Bo wraps her arms around Tamsin's neck and clings to her, and Tamsin loses her breath completely--if she _had_ a cock, she'd be so fucking hard right now. Pushed between Bo's thighs and right up against that heat. _Closer._

There's a crowd cheering them on, and it goes straight to her cunt, because she's got the hottest woman in the room--hell, the city--writhing under her. Damn straight they're cheering. And it's Bo; Bo arching up into her like she wants Tamsin inside her, _now_ , and Tamsin's already surrounded by her, just aching for that push, that slide, that one more thing. She bites down over Bo's pulse, and Bo's head falls back, strangled sound catching in her throat. Getting a grip on her shoulder with one hand, the other on her waist, she starts to grind her hips into Bo. 

There's a polite _tap_ on the pool table. It doesn't quite register, until Tamsin realizes people have stopped cheering quite so loudly. Trick clears his throat, and they both jump. "Ladies. Take it outside." He looks pointedly at Bo, who glares back but lets go of Tamsin. 

Tamsin blows out a breath and pulls back. She still takes a second to pull Bo's skirt back down over her thighs so she's not flashing everyone. What can she say. It must be love. 

Bo's eyes flash. _Outside._

It goes through her like a heartbeat: _Anywhere._ She hopes Bo can't--can?--see it. 

When they get there, though, Bo's phone goes off. She swears a blue streak before answering, and after hanging up. She catches Tamsin's raised eyebrow. "Dyson. Trouble at the clubhouse." 

It's Tamsin's turn to swear. " _Seriously_?"

"Seriously. God, I swear, I am so _done_ getting box-blocked by the universe."


End file.
